“Just like in Nuremberg,” whispered Johann, exchanging a look with Karl. “Remember?”
Karl nodded. “Tonio was leading an order then. Those people wanted to use the children’s blood to invoke the devil. Perhaps there are similar madmen in this area, too.”
“Madmen?” Johann gave a laugh. “I wish they were. But I’m afraid they are disciples who truly believe in the return of Satan. Don’t forget what Agrippa told us. Tonio, alias Gilles de Rais, is just a shell. The true devil is still waiting to take over the world.”
Karl sighed and raised both hands. “I’ve long given up trying to talk you out of this theory.”
“Come to Tiffauges with me and I’ll show you that I’m right,” replied Johann.
Suddenly he felt cold despite the blazing fire, and he tightened Little Satan’s fur around his shoulders. The musty and slightly rancid smell reminded him of happier times.
“I feel certain that Gilles de Rais resides at the castle again, just like he used to. He is probably the priest Albert MacSully spoke about.” Johann nodded toward the window. “I saw the old raven again and the crows. They’re his messengers, just like the wolves. Gilles, or Tonio, knows that we’re coming.” He paused. “I should go there by myself. This is between Tonio and me alone.”
“We all go,” said Greta decisively. “Then we’ll finally gain certainty.”
She looked first at John and then at her father, but Johann avoided her gaze. He still wasn’t sure if he could trust John Reed. His daughter, on the other hand, seemed head over heels in love with the Scotsman. The small gestures and touches between the young couple pained Johann more than he cared to admit.
A tight bond had grown between Greta and John, much tighter than the one he himself had managed to build with his daughter over the last few years.
Two days later they came across the first dead children.
It was in the same village the folks at the tavern had spoken of. They could hear chanting from far away, which turned out to be a Breton chorale from ancient times. It blew over to them from the cemetery that, together with a small derelict church, stood on the outskirts of the village. A low drystone wall surrounded the patch of crooked tombstones. The road led right past it.
From atop his horse, Johann watched a group of about two dozen peasants carrying two small coffins, not much bigger than dowry chests. Even though the coffins must have been very light, the pallbearers’ shoulders were bent as if their burdens were unbearably heavy. At the front, right behind the priest, walked a woman and a man who clung to each other. The woman let out mournful wails from time to time, shook her fist at the heavens, and screamed incomprehensible words. She couldn’t have been very old, yet her hair was gray and her face seemed to have aged before her time. The man, too—presumably the father of the dead children—was marked by grief, stiffly placing one foot in front of the other. At the end of the congregation limped an old woman with a cane. She was the only one to notice the travelers behind the wall. She stopped to look at them, and when her gaze caught Johann’s, she made the sign of the cross.
“An diaoul!” she shouted, waving her cane at Johann. “Ha prest out evit ober un taol gouren gant an diaoul?”
The other funeral guests also stopped, and the procession came to a halt. Everyone was looking at the strangers now.
“Diaoul!” shouted the old woman again.
“What’s she saying?” asked Johann, who didn’t know a word of Breton.
“I’m not sure.” John frowned. “If I understand correctly, she thinks you’re the devil. Perhaps because of your paralysis.”
Lately, Johann’s spine had become a little bent, making him look hunchbacked. Johann had to agree with John—he truly could be mistaken for the devil.
The people in the cemetery stared at him as if he were an evil foreign being. The priest addressed the funeral party in an annoyed tone, whereupon the mourners reluctantly turned away from Johann. The pallbearers with the two small coffins started to move again toward a hole in the center of the cemetery, the women cried and wailed, and the church bells tolled. Only the old woman stayed where she was and pointed at Johann.
“Diaoul!” she called out again. “C’hwi zo o c’h en em bilet gant an diaoul!”
Johann was about to urge his horse onward when something strange happened. The old woman limped to a small gate in the cemetery wall, hobbled out onto the road, and, in a childlike gesture, dropped to her knees before Johann and the horse.
“What is she doing?” asked Johann, astounded.
John raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know.” He walked over to the woman and lifted her by her arms; tears stood in her eyes, which were framed by deep wrinkles. She started to speak very fast to John, pointing at Johann again and again.
“I’m not understanding much,” said John eventually when the old woman paused for a moment. “But I think I was wrong. She thinks the doctor is not the devil but the one who can vanquish the devil. This woman is the village midwife. She . . .” John frowned and looked at Johann. “She said she dreamed of you. Of your arrival. Sorceles . . . yes, that’s the word.” John nodded. “Sorceles. She believes you’re a wizard.”
Johann smiled. “She isn’t the only one.” He hesitated briefly before he continued. “Tell her to lead us to her house. I’d like to speak with her—without the priest and half the village watching.”
The old woman hobbled ahead. She turned off the road onto a narrow path that led through
